


Two Heartbeats

by SkyScribbles



Series: It Feels Like Light [3]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: (Are A Pain), Battle Scenes, Bittersweet, Interspecies Romance, M/M, Minor Injuries, Non-Graphic Violence, Sand People
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15165863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyScribbles/pseuds/SkyScribbles
Summary: Interspecies romances often have problems, and sometimes they're not what you'd expect. Theron and the Outlander certainly weren’t expecting it to be so much of a problem that Zabraks have two hearts, and humans only have one.





	Two Heartbeats

As interspecies romances go… there could be bigger problems.

Zeth's heard all kinds of stories. People falling in love with Cathar only to find out that they're allergic to feline hair. Twi'leks whose partners simply can't pick up on the subtle lekku movements that form such a crucial part of their communication. Cross-species couples who try and try to have their own children, but whose genetics simply won’t match up.

So he and Theron are lucky, really. Humans and Zabraks aren’t all that far apart, biologically speaking, and the few differences they have tend to cause amusement rather than difficulty. Like that time when Zeth unthinkingly tried to rest his head on Theron’s shoulder and was met with a yelp and a ‘Watch the horns, will you?’ Or when Theron got his own back by discovering - and gleefully exploiting - the fact that the bases of Zabrak horns are ridiculously ticklish. Or the time when Zeth finally gathered the courage to ask something he'd wondered all his life – what _exactly_ are eyebrows for?

And aside from that, the fact that they're different species hasn't really been an issue. Until now. Until here, under the unforgiving glare of Tatooine’s twin suns, as Zeth listens to the sound of Theron’s heartbeat.

He’s always known that humans have only one heart. It’s... simply very easy to forget. He’s so used to his own heartbeats, the double rhythm that pounds against his ribs whenever he’s scared or angry. He’s used to seeing two lines on the heart monitors whenever he’s in a med bay. He’s used to the figures of speech that come naturally to him – _heavy hearts, hearts of gold, hearts in the right places._ So sometimes he forgets that his human friends, and his human lover, have just one.

Today, he forgot. And he wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt.

* * *

It begins with their mission to Tatooine. Zeth and Theron have adopted the Star Fortresses as something of a personal project, so when the Selonian sniper makes contact, they’re geared up and ready to go within the hour.

They take the _Defender,_ because they’ll be grateful for being in an armoured vessel if they run into any of the Eternal Fleet. Zeth’s been avoiding flying his old ship – it feels so _empty_   when he steps inside it and doesn’t hear Kira yelling at Doc from the med bay, or see Rusk and T7 staring each other down over the dejarik table, or sense Scourge’s shadowy presence. Everything that made the ship personal is gone, from the bead curtain Kira found in a Nar Shaddaa market and hung up over the entryway to the bridge, to the collection of pebbles Zeth kept in his cabin, -one from every planet he’s been to. But with Theron around, it feels a little more like home. The place is less barren with someone to talk to, and laugh with, and play round after round of dejarik with - though Zeth isn't fully convinced that Theron isn't calculating his moves with his implants. So by the time they reach Tatooine, he’s managed to shed his unease and relax.

Considering what happens later, maybe he relaxes too much.

It’s been years since he was last on Tatooine – more than a decade, if he counts his time in cabon-freeze – but it’s just as he remembers it. The heat still smacks him in the face as he opens the airlock, the air still dries out his throat as he breathes it in, and the spaceport is still a whirlpool of crowded bodies. Czerka officials, spacers, locals in their loose-fitting tunics - all are swerving and weaving to avoid the scurrying Jawas, and none give Zeth or Theron a single glance as they pick their way through the crowd. It seems likely that Empress Acina could come here and no one would bother wondering why, unless she spilled someone’s drink or failed to pay a debt.

Theron struggles bravely against the heat as far as the spaceport exit, then finally admits defeat and shrugs off his jacket with a look of deepest regret. ‘Now I know this planet is unfit for civilised beings.’

‘I always wondered what it’d take to separate you from the jacket. Looks like I’ve got my answer.’

This earns Zeth such a glare that he holds up his hands. ‘All right, all right. I will not draw attention to your terrible loss. Where are we meeting this contact?’

‘A little way out across the Jundland wastes. We’ll need to rent a speeder.’ Theron folds his jacket delicately, and places it with equal tenderness into the supply backpack they’re sharing. ‘We’ll know her when we see her – it’s not like Selonians are common out here.’

From there, things proceed smoothly. They find Leyta at the rendezvous point. She gives them the coordinates for the Zakuul shield bunker. The walker that faces them when they get there isn't too big a challenge – it’s a simple matter for Theron to distract it with a hail of blaster fire, attracting its attention so that Zeth can dart forward, leap onto its back, and plunge both lightsabres deep into the mechanisms. He hurls himself to safety an instant before the thing goes up in flames, rolls with the landing, and straightens up in time to watch the explosion. Theron, emerging from cover, shoots him a satisfied grin.  Things are going well.

It’s as they’re heading back to Leyta that things start going very drastically _not_ well.

The first warning is a pulse in the Force. It’s a sensation Zeth’s felt a million times before, usually just before the Sith or Zakuul Knight he’s duelling brings down their blade for a would-be mortal blow, or before an explosive device triggers, or before an asteroid hurtles into the path of his ship. For a half-second, it’s as if every instinct he has is screaming at him – _something is about to happen._

He doesn’t think. He just reacts. In the time it takes for one of his hearts to beat he’s slammed the brake on their borrowed speeder, twisted around in his seat, grabbed Theron by the shoulder and launched them both onto the ground. They hit the dunes roughly, sending up a spray of sand, the speeder skids on for a few seconds before screeching and spinning to a stop – and the sniper shot ploughs into the sand exactly where they were headed.

There’s a single moment of silence; then the Force flares up again. Zeth’s hands fly to his lightsabers. By the time the blades are lit, he’s already moving, responding to the silent, instinctive knowledge that tells him to  _move here, now._ His offhand sabre comes up; the second shot crashes into it, deflects, and smacks into the side of the dune.

All this happens in the time it takes for Theron to scramble upright. He spits out stand and wrenches his blasters from their holsters. ‘What is it? Zakuulan reinforcements?’

‘No.’ Zeth can already feel the reverberations in the ground. ‘Sand people. We need cover.’

He glances around, and his gaze falls on their speeder, now lying crookedly a short distance away. Sucking in a breath, he holds out one hand and reaches into the Force, letting his senses flow out into the metal and the machinery, silently beckoning the vehicle towards him.

Only a few months ago, he wouldn’t have been capable of this. Before the Alliance, when he was still part of the Jedi Order, he was a lightsaber swordsman and a swordsman only. A very effective swordsman, to be sure, but embarrassingly weak in most other disciplines. His telekinesis skills could lift small objects, but nothing of any significant size, and he’s the first to admit that he couldn’t have mind-tricked a potato. Since Satele and Marr’s impromptu training session, though, things are different. He’s learning to let go, to stop clinging to the surface of the Force for safety and just let himself drown in it. It’s slow going, and even after months of practice he isn’t half the telekinetic that Lana is – but right now, the strength he’s built is enough. The speeder trembles, then shudders, then jolts free of the sand and hurtles towards him.

No sooner have he and Theron thrown themselves behind it than the earth erupts.

The air fills with yelping calls as masked figures claw their way out of the ground, and Zeth’s insides twist at the sight of how many there are. Six sand people pose little challenge to fighters as skilled as Theron and himself, but that many ambushers combined with at least two snipers up on the cliffs…well. It could be a complicated fight.

‘You know, I had my doubts about falling for a Jedi.’ Theron leans over the side of the speeder and launches a flurry of blaster bolts in the ambushers’ direction, forcing them to scatter. ‘But when you save our necks like this, I’m pretty sure I made the right choice.’

‘I haven’t saved us yet. Those snipers are going to cause some problems.’

As if to affirm his statement, a third shot smashes into the side of the speeder, making the vehicle lurch backward and smack painfully into Zeth’s side. There’s an metallic cracking sound, and a cough of smoke billows up from the metal.

Theron lets out a frustrated huff. ‘Great. Guess we’re walking back. And paying for damages.’

‘Let’s worry about that if we survive this.’ Zeth scans the cliff face, but the ridges of rock are too high and too numerous. There’s no sign of the raiders who fired the shots. ‘If I engage these ones up close, I’ll probably draw the snipers’ fire. If they expose themselves enough, would you be able to hit them at this range?’

‘I can handle that. You sure you can take six at once?’

Zeth nods. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Theron fires a few more warning shots over the speeder, and ducks down again to shoot Zeth a grin. ‘Stars, I’m glad I’m doing this with you and not Lana. If I asked her that question, she’d electrocute me for ‘insulting her abilities.’’

Despite the situation, Zeth can’t help but laugh. ‘ _That’s_ why you’re glad to be with me?’

He doesn’t wait for a response, but hurdles the speeder and launches himself at their attackers. A few reel backwards as he lands in front of them – most, however, raise their gaffi sticks and charge him, their braying cries growing louder. As the first reaches him, Zeth sidesteps a blow, swings his blades up, and severs his attacker's weapon into three parts. He feels a twinge of guilt as they fall to the ground – he knows how important a gaffi stick is to its bearer. But he’s still a Jedi, no matter how far from Tython he is, and he’d rather destroy the weapon than its wielder.

No sooner has the first sand person staggered back than a second’s upon him, swinging the butt of his gaffi stick at Zeth’s head. And a third, armed with a rifle, is taking aim nearby, and the other three are rushing away from the melee, clearly aiming to circle around the speeder and get to Theron –

Zeth breathes in deeply, and lets the Force carry him.

He lets his instincts, not his eyes, tell him where the sand person’s blow will fall. He lets his body respond by twisting aside and bringing one blade up and one down, so that the tips score across his enemy’s weapon arm and ankles – just flesh wounds, but enough to keep this raider out of the fight. Then he lets the Force lend him speed as he rushes toward the rifle-wielder. He lets it tell him when to dodge the shot fired in his direction, and lets it guide his lightsabres as they swing up to slice through the rifle’s barrel. As he wheels around to intercept the other three, he hears the familiar crack of Theron’s blasters, and two streaks of red light streak past him. A moment later, there’s a strangled howl from the cliff, and a robe-clad body falls from one of the ledges.

There aren't many who could shoot so small a target at such a distance. Normally you'd need a sniper rifle, but Theron nailed the shot with regular blasters. Zeth allows himself a moment to reflect, with dazed delight, at his luck in having a boyfriend who’s so utterly _incredible._

Then he runs for the other raiders. They’ve nearly reached the speeder, but he’s able to Force-pull them back a little way, so that they stagger and turn to face him. They glance between him and Theron, and clearly decide that the man rushing towards them armed with lightsabers is the greater threat. One barrels towards him, a reckless charge – he’s shorter than the others, and Zeth wonders (dimly, because when he’s fighting like this it’s hard to think about anything except what his blades are doing) if this is a young warrior, newly given the right to wield his gaffi stick. Certainly, the strike he makes at Zeth is sloppy, and even for a telekinetic as weak as himself, it’s easy to Force-pull the weapon from his hand and send it flying across the dunes.

The youngster staggers back, looking at his empty hands in bemusement, but the other two keep coming. _Duck,_ Zeth’s instincts tell him, and he does, in time for the first raider’s blow to sail over his head. _Move back, now,_ and the second sand person misses him by an inch. _Strike low,_ and he scores a shallow burn over his attacker’s ankles, causing the raider to howl and drop to the ground.

The final raider stops sharply and kneels beside the injured one, seizing him by the arm. Maybe they're family - parent and child, brothers, lovers, friends? Whatever the case, he’s not attacking any more, but hauling the other raider back, his gaffi stick pointed at Zeth as if to say, _stay back, don’t touch him._

Zeth’s happy to oblige. If these two are out of the fight, that only leaves the second sniper –

Except, he realises a moment later, that the two whose weapons he destroyed earlier have snatched up different ends of a broken gaffi stick and are charging at him. Of course they are. Zeth stifles a sigh and drops back into his stance – and realises, as the raiders suddenly split up and run in different directions, that they’re not heading for him.

They’re going for Theron.

There’s no time to chase down both of them. Zeth throws out his hands, prays that his lessons from Satele and Marr pay off, and reaches into the Force again. Both sand people stop mid-stride, as if grasped by an invisible hand – but in an instant, they’re straining against his hold, and it’s all Zeth can do to keep them still.

Zeth grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and lets go of the world completely. Nothing exists except him, the two sand people, and the Force that’s holding them in place. He only needs to focus for a few seconds, long enough for Theron to see what’s going on and take these two out. But if he lets himself get distracted for even an instant, they can slip from his grasp and get to Theron, and he can’t let that happen, he _won’t_ let that happen, so he won’t let his focus slip, he won’t be distracted, and he definitely won’t –

_Move._

Zeth’s eyes snap open. And even without his instincts screeching at him to _move, move right now, now! –_ the targeting laser dancing on his chest would be obvious.

His breath catches. No. No, he mustn't. If he moves, his grip will slip and they can reach Theron - 

But there’s no other option. Between Theron maybe getting hurt and himself definitely dying, there’s not a choice. He relaxes his hold and leaps aside – and an instant later, the sniper blast smacks into the sand where he was standing.

And then… everything happens very fast.

The sand people lurch forward, regain their footing, and keep charging Theron.

Zeth leaps for the nearest, lands in front of him, and slices his weapon to shreds.

Theron looks up at the last sand person, the one who’s now almost upon him, moves as if to aim at him – and then turns away. Aims his blasters at the cliff instead. Fires.

The second sniper falls from the clifftop, dead.

And the final raider swings the clubbed end of his gaffi stick, catching Theron squarely in the head.

For a single heartbeat, Zeth can do nothing. He can’t even cry out – the air seems to have vanished from his lungs, and his breath has slammed to a halt in his throat. His limbs are numb. And there’s nothing in the entire galaxy except for the sight of Theron falling backwards, forehead bloodied, to sprawl on the sand and lie still.

Then the world springs back into motion. And so does he.

The sand person is raising his weapon for a final strike when Zeth’s upon him, and – seeing no other opening – brings up both blades, severing the raider’s arm below the elbow. Both limb and gaffi stick smack to the earth – but the sand person only snarls, pulls a knife from his belt with his remaining hand, and lunges forward. This time, there’s no peaceful solution - there’s a dagger heading for Zeth’s hearts, and he has to make a split-second decision. He brings forward both arms, and his longer weapons strike first. The sand person goes limp, embedded on the two blue blades, the knife slipping from his grasp. It lands point-down on the sand.

Zeth wrenches his lightsabres free and spins around, casting his eyes over the battlefield. The two snipers lie in bloodied messes at the foot of the cliff. One raider is dead at his feet. Three more crouch on the ground, nursing injuries. One, the youngster, is still dithering nearby, unarmed, and the last is still kneeling beside his wounded comrade.

Sucking in a breath, Zeth takes a step forward, so that he’s standing over Theron with lightsabres drawn. He looks at the last of the sand people, the only one who's still armed and healthy, and says, ‘Leave us.’

The sand person holds his gaze, and makes no move to attack.

‘Go,’ Zeth says, more loudly. ‘If you attack again, I will stop holding back.’

His language is probably incomprehensible to them, but his tone of voice seems to be enough. The last raider dips his head slowly, helps his wounded ally to his feet, and barks at the others. The youngster scurries over to the other two injured raiders, pulls each to their feet in turn, and lets them lean on him. Slowly, the entire group backs away, one step at a time, until they’ve vanished behind the dunes.

Maybe Zeth’s earned their respect. Maybe their friends’ lives are worth more to them than their enemies' deaths. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that they’re gone.

And that Theron still isn’t moving.

Zeth deactivates his lightsabres, hurls them aside, and crashes heavily to his knees. He can hear Theron’s name breaking again and again from his lips. The wound on his head doesn’t look bad – just a smear of blood, matting the hair above his implants – so he has to be all right, any moment now he’ll open his eyes and he’ll be fine, but he’s still not moving, _why isn’t he moving –_

 _Stop,_ he tells himself. _You can’t help Theron like this. Breathe, and concentrate. It’s like any other battle – you’re fighting to keep him alive._

Their backpack lies on the sand nearby. Too tired to use the Force, Zeth scrambles over to grab it. Ripping it open, he digs past Theron's neatly folded jacket and fumbles for the medical kit. A quick scan, that’s all it’ll take, and he’ll know what’s wrong with Theron, why he’s still not getting up. He grabs the med scanner, aims it at Theron, activates it –

And that’s when he forgets. That’s when being a Zabrak in love with a human suddenly becomes a problem.

The scan results flash up, showing Theron’s breathing rate, heartrate, injury report, everything. And Zeth stares, because there’s only one line under the word _heartrate._ A single line, spiking into zigzags. The beats are regular, coming nice and healthily and steadily, just as they should – but there’s only one set of them. One set. One.

There should be two. Two heartbeats. How can there be only one? Was he shot or stabbed when Zeth didn’t see? How could he have missed something like that? And – and what can he do? If Theron's wounded this badly, Zeth has to fix it, but he’s not a healer. If Doc were here, he could do something, but no one knows where Doc is and Zeth is _useless._ He’s got kolto, yes, he’s got medpacs, but he can’t see a wound. No blood, not even a burn. Even the med scanner’s no help – it says there's only a cut.  How can he treat an injury when he doesn't know where or what it is?

And for a moment he’s frozen. Helpless. Just like he was on Rishi, all that time ago, when he returned to the safehouse and Lana told him that Theron had been captured. Now, as then, he can’t move, can’t speak, can barely breathe, because there’s room in his mind for only one thought.

_I don’t want a galaxy without him._

'You got them?'

Zeth blinks. Looks down. Theron's eyes are open, and he's - he seems fine. And Zeth almost cries from the relief of remembering that humans only _have_ one heart, they’re _meant_ to only have one heart working, you _idiot,_ of course they do –

‘Zeth?’ Theron's voice is bleary, but his eyes are clear. Focused. Which means he’s all right, thank the stars, he’s all right. 'Did you get them?'

It's hard to get words out - his throat is painfully tight - but Zeth manages to say, 'Yes. They’re gone.’

Theron stares at him for a moment, then frowns. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. I just –‘ Zeth sets the med scanner down, and lets out a shaky breath. ‘For a moment, I thought you… I thought it was worse than it is.’

‘I’ve got a hell of a headache, but I’m good.’

‘You might not have been. You shouldn’t have gone for the sniper, not when there was a sand person right on top of you –’

‘He was going to take another shot at you. You were standing right in his line of fire.’ Theron pushes himself up into a sitting position. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I know the whole point was for you to draw his attention. But… he had a clear shot at you. I wasn’t going to let him take it.’

‘You could have died.’

‘Not with you around,’ Theron says. Like it’s that simple.

And suddenly, Zeth’s fighting back tears. He doesn’t know why – Theron’s fine. Everything’s fine. But for some reason there’s wetness pressing at his eyes. It’s ridiculous. He can hold himself together in a pitched battle, he didn’t even panic when he saw Theron wounded, he’s got no reason, no _right_ to fall apart now –

Theron makes a small noise of concern, and then Zeth feels warm arms around him. So they just hold each other, there on the sand, for a long time.

‘Sorry,’ Zeth whispers against Theron’s shoulder. ‘You’re the one who was hurt. You shouldn’t have to be comforting me.’

‘It’s okay. I get it. Guess even Jedi Battlemasters have to panic sometimes.’

Zeth laughs, feeling a little drunk on his own relief. ‘I won’t make a habit of it. But you’re right. I suppose I’m only Zabrak, after all.’

He lets himself have one more moment to hold Theron close to him. Then he swallows down the last of his tearfulness and sits back. ‘All right. Get some kolto on that wound, and we’ll get you to a medic as soon as we’re back in civilisation.’

To his relief, his voice is steady again. Very much not to his relief, Theron waves a hand dismissively. ‘It’ll be fine. First, I’m fixing the speeder so we don’t die of thirst out here.’

‘ _Ko_ _lto._ Now.’ Zeth pushes the med kit into Theron’s hands, and get to his feet. 'Head wounds bleed a lot, and I spent enough time on Rishi and Ziost watching you walk around with injuries everywhere. I’ll fix the speeder; you fix your head.’

The speeder, as it turns out, isn’t badly damaged; the sniper shot tore through a few cables, but nothing that can't be replaced. There’s a spare parts kit, and Zeth didn’t spend all those years working alongside one of the best astromech droids in the galaxy ( _the_ best, as far as he’s concerned) without learning anything. A little tinkering, some muffled complaints, and a great deal of oil smeared across his hands is all it takes to get it running again.

‘Could have been a lot worse,’ Theron remarks, as the engine leaps into life with a smooth purr. And Zeth looks at him - a kolto patch over his forehead, the bloodstains on his hair and face already baked to dark red in the heat - and thinks, _yes. Yes, it could._

* * *

That night, they sleep in a warehouse that Leyta's repurposed to house the steadily growing Tatooine resistance. Theron has made a further concession to the heat by removing his shirt, and is sprawled out on his back, ribs rising and falling as he breathes. Zeth, as normal, is tucked against his side. Sleep feels far off, and he can tell that Theron is still awake too- it's hard to get comfortable when it's barely cooler in here than out in the desert. And, more importantly, Zeth can't banish the mental image of Theron lying still on the sand. Sometimes it feels like every time he turns around, Theron's managed to get injuries all over his face again - but this time, it could have been so much worse than bruises, or a fried implant. 

A whim occurs to him, and he tries to push it out of his mind, but - he can't. So he reaches out and rests a hand over the centre of Theron's chest, closing his eyes and concentrating until he can feel a trace of that single heartbeat.

'What are you doing?' Theron says. Or tries to. Most of it comes out as a yawn.

'Making sure.'

Theron's eyes open a crack. 'Making sure of what?'

Zeth hesitates, wondering what to say, then decides on the truth. 'That I don't forget again.'

This prompts a yawn, and a mumble that sounds like, 'You make no sense sometimes.'

Which is fair enough, because what he's doing is definitely very strange. But he has to do this – tonight, and maybe every other night – so he always remembers that humans have one heart. So he can't forget a second time, and think he's going to lose someone.

'And I need to make sure it's still going,' he adds.

He half-expects Theron to be too asleep to hear him, but instead, Theron turns his head and gives him a bewildered look. 'I blacked out for about sixty seconds, Zeth. Hardly an injury that's going to be fatal.'

'I know. I just need to be sure.'

Apparently too tired to ask for an explanation, Theron just closes his eyes again. Zeth watches him silently until a shift in his breathing indicates that he's finally managed to sleep. Still, he doesn't lift his hand. He knows it’s foolish, knows that a heart isn't going to stop out of nowhere just because it doesn't have a twin - but he can't help it. He has to check. He can’t sleep unless he’s sure it's still beating.

And it is. He can feel it against his hand as he falls asleep. There's something lonely, something vulnerable, about the single beat - but it's there. Soft and steady and sure, and going strong. 


End file.
